Jones watched a puddle of chicken broth jump out and splash against the edge of the hot eye as she turned noodles over in a pot, waiting for them to soften enough for her to pull them apart.
Ah, the diet of a starving author: cereal by day, ramen by night.
It was not like she made any money on her writing, but she liked to think of herself that way.
Her eyes were sore and her head throbbed from searching through job sites all day, reading and writing reading, over and over again, trying to make the cover letters appear as exactly what the employers were looking for. It was exhausting, trying to dress your experience up without actually lying.
Jones could hardly sell her own books, a complete work of fiction designed to entice and draw in readers. How was she supposed to sell herself when she could not even take writing non-fiction seriously?
She sighed, pulled the pot off the stove and emptied its contents into her special ramen bowl. Jones was praying for a miracle. She just needed one person to give her a chance, to show them how good of an editor she could really be.
Jones understood writers, she knew how they thought, how they acted, how timid they could be, and how arrogant they were when it came to their work. Hell, she had many friends who were aspiring authors, who looked up to her for guidance and advice. Her, who had self-published her first book, twice, and was now attempting to rewrite and publish it a third time.
Jones had no idea what these writers saw in her, but if her friends and family believed she was excellent writer, sure at least one publisher out there would feel the same.
Jones shook her head and carried her water and special ramen bowl to the table. Then, she headed back into her room to grab her notebook and green pen, so she could write this event down and publish it on her website.